How truly good, Matheson sent back.
No, Agent Matheson, it is not.
Do they send biological scientists to some special course to destroy, or to some surgical procedure to remove, their sense of humor, Doc? I know it's not good. What can we do?
Wait. Let me think.
Retief scanned fearfully through the crenellations of the battlement. I think maybe they've backed off for a while. I can't imagine why, though. All we've got is myself and some slaves who can't shoot. And these are janissaries, first-class troops. It's not like them to run unless they think they absolutely have to.
"Give me your rifle," the corbasi demanded of a janissary cowering with him behind the castle's corner.
"Here, sir," the soldier said as he, more thankfully than not, passed over the weapon.
The colonel took it and, being very careful to expose no part of his body he didn't need to, eased the thing around the corner. When no return fire came he risked showing a bit more. When he had the forward half the airship in his field of view, he stopped. Moreover, for the first time he had the chance to look at the thing more or less calmly and carefully. He saw, however dimly, the South African markings on the thing. This didn't surprise him as the Americans, and he was sure they were Americans, wouldn't stop to scruple over using a false flag.
Where would the cockpit be? he wondered. We put out a lot a fire initially and, so far as I can tell, apparently didn't hit anything. No matter. No doubt everything important is armored or has a redundant back up. What to shoot; what to shoot? The gas cells? I know this kind of airship, slightly. It gets a good chunk of its lift from its shape, not its buoyancy. And it has vertical thrusters. But it doesn't get all of its lift from those. If I puncture enough gas cells, it will start to fall.
Slowly, adjusting his point of aim very deliberately between shots, the corbasi began shooting out the gas cells.
In the cockpit, Lee/Ling saw red lights start to appear on the control panel.
How truly fucking good, the pilot cursed, even as he increased power to the vertical thrusters and began to release more helium into the punctured gas cells.
"Matheson, this is Lee," the pilot sent over the communicator attached to his ear. "We've got a problem and you're going to have to hurry."
Shit, Doc, Matheson sent, you've got to come up with something quick. We've not much time left before the airship either has to leave or it won't be able to.
Be calm, Agent Matheson, I've had to do some stubby pencil drill.
For what?
For whether the one source of massive heat we've got is up to the job.
What source? Matheson asked.
The crematorium, Richter answered. It's got its own fuel supply and oxygen source. It has to have. We can use it to increase the temperature of the lab.
You mean as in leave the door open and turn on the flame?
Precisely.
What if it has a fail safe so it won't fire up if the door is open?
Silly question, Agent Matheson. If it has a fail safe you break it.
The nausea and the stumble-causing disconnect between eyes and brain were still pretty bad. And moving quickly only made it worse. Twice on the way to Hamilton's position Hans had to stop to vomit. Once he nearly fell over. Even so, Hans eventually clattered up the twisting stairs to Hamilton's position. He was nearly shot for his trouble.
"Jesus Christ, Hans! For God's sake announce yourself."
